


Staggered And Torn

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [25]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Harm to Children, Insomnia, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After SHIELD falls and he ceases to be a spy in order to become an Avenger, Clint still can't sleep, tries and sort of fails to prove himself useful, and maybe makes a new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staggered And Torn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Minimosca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minimosca/gifts).



> This was supposed to be longer, but it buckled and fought me every step of the way so I didn't reach back as much as I could have in some places. It's based on your preferences for Bucky and Clint and hurt/comfort, and I hope it pleases. :)
> 
> Please note that, while the fic is tagged as Clint/Natasha and does reference a relationship between them on more than one occasion, the ship isn't the main focus. 
> 
> Beta-read by tastewithouttalent, thank you! And also, thanks to ratherastory for brainstorming with me and inadvertently planting the image of the last scene in my head. ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Staggered And Torn" by Slut (shh, it means 'end' in swedish).

Insomnia is undiscriminating. It has had its claws in Clint for months now, ever since New York, and his move from a shoebox-sized quarter with SHIELD to a whole floor in Stark's shiny tower didn't do a damn thing to change that. Regardless of the expensive wood paneling on the walls or the thread count of the sheets, Clint still spends most nights staring holes into the ceiling. It’s hardly the first time the job kept him up, if he's honest, but it's still not the same. This time he knows the faces that come back to scream their hatred, their fear, and their anger at the unfairness of their deaths at him every time he closes his eyes. 

He knows they were like him: bent enough to make a job out of shooting people but not so far gone they'd do it for just anyone. Spies, as a general rule, aren't well-adjusted people. Well. Maybe the science staff and the computer code monkeys, it’s possible those fall closer to the average citizen. They're the ones with families and mortgages and a SUV in the garage. But field agents? There’s a reason SHIELD gave out sleeping pills like Smarties and employed a small army of shrinks. The kinda job they all did – still do, only under a new name and divided into different corners now – does not attract Joe Normal. And quite honestly, it’s not like a day to day life of shooting people and getting shot at in return would contribute to anyone’s emotional well-being. To some degree or other, each and every one of them is fucked in the head. Looking at the whole disaster from that angle, it makes a sick kind of sense that SHIELD would turn out to be Hydra’s greenhouse.

Sometimes, when he lies awake, Clint tries to figure out how many of the people he shot on that helicarrier might have been traitors. Not because they deserved to die – for someone who makes a living killing people, Clint’s actually rather hesitant to dole out death sentences. He’s not trying to absolve himself. It’s just, when he goes over the faces of the people who are dead because of _him_ , thinking of them as wolves in sheep’s clothing makes it all just a little bit easier. He never investigates further, though, doesn’t look into their records to look for inconsistencies or ties to known double agents. In the end, it’s all semantics. Dead is dead. It doesn’t actually matter. But every now and then, it calms him down enough to fall back asleep.

He’s in the middle of another count – Mayhew was a recent transfer and always kept to himself, which might have been a hint or just commonplace, Clint wasn’t exactly chatty around his colleagues either – when he feels Natasha’s hand touch his arm, gently, barely there.

“Quit thinking so loud,” she says, her voice thick with sleep, and part of him can’t quite believe she still trusts him enough to let herself be that vulnerable around him. Then again, never being afraid of one another has always been part of what they are. He’s been stubborn about that when she first came in; now she’s paying him back. 

Instead of a reply he slides his hand down her arm in return and entwines their fingers, making her give a small, content sigh and shift a little closer. He does the same, closes his eyes a little tighter, deliberately empties his mind, and gives this whole finally-falling-asleep thing another concentrated effort. 

It doesn't work. 

 

***

 

They seem to settle in. All of them – well, except for Rogers, who took off to find that long-lost pal of his, but he’s supposed to join up after. Even Thor, who brought in his girlfriend, big brain number three and some estrogen to counter the overload of testosterone on the science floor. She gives Clint shifty eyes whenever she sees him, but at least with her he thinks it’s about New Mexico more than it is about Loki, which is oddly refreshing.

Through the grapevine, Clint hears about behind-the-scenes efforts to rebuild SHIELD to take down Hydra the old-fashioned way, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. But Natasha gets that stony face whenever he broaches the subject, the one that says she’s not going to tell him no but she doesn't approve either, and he gets it. She’s been there, had the Triskelion fall to pieces around her, experienced Fury’s faked death first-hand, got shot at and bombed by people she thought she could trust. He’s the one who brought her in and made her trust them in the first place, and he’s not going to ask her to take that plunge twice. If she wants to stay here instead, then so will he. 

 

***

 

There are two significant differences between working for SHIELD and working – well, being an Avenger. The first is the publicity of the whole thing: once your face has been on national television in relation to an alien attack, covert ops are kinda out of the window. The other is the scope: Stark does not call them out of bed to do your everyday spy work, secure intel, that sort of thing. No. It's all about furthering his redemption efforts with big gestures. These days, _out on a mission_ only happens once in a blue moon and involves shit like terrorist attacks and disasters. Big press. Not under the radar, but smack in the middle of the spotlight.

Clint never thought he’d see the day when he’d _miss_ undercover jobs in Kiew mid-winter, but here they are. Honestly, half the time he doesn’t even know why they have him tag along. A Norse god or a guy in a tin can might be helpful in recovering people from a derailed underground train, but in a situation like this there’s little Clint can contribute that one of the firemen milling about couldn’t also do. Plus, he’s not looking forward to seeing his face on the news again tomorrow, with the others, like he belongs there, as if he’s some sort of hero. He’s _killed people for a living_ , for fuck’s sake.

Then again, he should probably be grateful. The whole save-and-protect deal has to be better for his karma.

He stands in the rubble, hands balled into fists by his side because even he doesn't carry a bow and arrows to a disaster site and he doesn't know what else to do with them, on the lookout for some way to make himself useful, prove to himself and everyone else that he's good for things that don't involve shooting people. There's one of the aforementioned firemen giving him the stink eye, glancing him up and down in a way that suggests his train of thought is uncomfortably close to Clint's own. It's too loud to talk, so Clint raises his eyebrows at the guy, hopes it conveys asking for an order rather than arrogance or attitude. Seconds tick by before the fireman sighs and points to his left. Clint follows his line of sight to a pillar lined with visible cracks, surrounded by a pile of debris, and yes, fuck, on a closer look he can see traces of dusty, dark red fabric underneath it. 

Whoever's been wearing it isn't currently moving, though, and when the fireman takes off without another look after one of his colleagues shouts something Clint can't decipher it dawns on him that no one expects them to move ever again. There's an explosion and a battle cry not far away, and yeah, hey, awesome, while the rest of their little band of heroes saves people by the dozen and in full HD, he's over here recovering bodies. 

But it's something to do, and whoever's going to get to bury the body he's staring at right now will probably be grateful. He goes to work, carefully removing pieces of debris while trying not to choke on the dirt he's raising in the process, biting his tongue to keep from cursing out loud when he finds what's left of a school bag on top of the kid's red jacket. 

And then the kid moves, and Clint almost swallows his tongue in surprise. 

He shovels faster at the dirt and fallen pieces of rubble to get at the body, which is once more hauntingly still, half-sure he's imagined the movement, but there's a _possibility_ the kid's still alive. He's getting frantic, paying less and less attention to what he hauls where, tugging at the body and the bag and everything he can get his hands on. A voice at the back of his head keeps telling him that he might be doing more damage than good, that the kid might be injured in ways that don't take kindly to being jarred, but he can't stop. He's started to sweat, can feel it run down the side of his face, mixing with the dirt and making him itch. He's yelling, or tries to, voice creaky with the dust he's inhaling and not carrying very far. 

The crackle of the pillar next to him doesn't register until it's almost too late, and the only option he's left with is cowering over the kid’s body as a chunk of it comes down on both of them. He doesn't even feel the impact. 

 

***

 

Natasha is there with him when he comes to in the hospital, glaring daggers at him as soon as she senses he's awake. They don't chew each other out for getting hurt on principle – otherwise that'd be a conversation they'd replay far too regularly – but the tongue-lashing is heavily implied. 

Her expression softens as she tells him the kid is dead, had been way before they even got there, and informs him that he's come away with a broken collarbone, two cracked rips and, worst of all, a ruptured right femur. The doctors are talking months until a full recovery, not weeks, and putting weight on that leg isn't going to happen for the next little while. 

That's what he gets for trying to hero around. 

He stays in the hospital for less than a week before he manages to rope Stark and Banner into getting him situated at the tower instead, behind the backs of both his doctors and Natasha. The latter he feels a bit guilty about, but he hates hospitals – the smell, the noises, everything – and he vows not to skip a single PT session to make it up to her. Probably. Not more than two or three, at least. 

 

***

 

Boredom and Clint Barton have never been friends, and avoid each other at every available opportunity. No, seriously. He _hates_ sitting idle. Not even the huge-ass TV in his shiny new living room and a carefully vetted collection of his all-time favorite movies changes that. He still can't sleep, which is probably not helped by the fact that he basically lives off pain killers and coffee. It's been almost three weeks, and by now he can limp around on crutches, but it's too slow for his liking and he doesn't have the patience to learn it properly, so he mostly stays put. 

He's just about to hit play on Speed – the first part, the second is not something he wants to sit through again unless someone pays him to do so – when the intercom overrides his remote control and Jarvis's artificial voice sounds out of the speakers. 

“Mr. Stark would like everyone to gather on the shared floor,” it announces. “Mr. Rogers is back, and he has company.” 

Clint weighs the effort of hobbling up there on crutches against his curiosity, but curiosity wins by a landslide and he inches to the edge of the obscenely huge sofa, hefting himself up and putting a crutch under each arm. Tongue between his teeth, he makes his way to the hallway and the elevator, where he runs into a cheerfully grinning Thor and quickly gathers himself in an effort to not look like he's in pain and about to collapse. 

Judging from how Thor's expression morphs into a slightly concerned frown, he's not doing a very good job of that. That's the downside of being sick around _friends_ ; at least his fellow agents had the good sense to be indifferent. 

The elevator door pings, and Clint hurries to hobble past Thor. Almost everyone's already gathered, and he has to push his way past Pepper and Bruce to get a good look at the new arrivals. 

He doesn't know what he expected, from the files and the footage of the fights in DC, but it wasn't the hunched figure standing next to Rogers, peering out from under long, greasy bangs and looking like he doesn't know whether he wants to lash out and rain down fire and blood on all of them or retreat into a corner. He's wearing dark body armor, dirty and torn in places, and the myth-enshrouded metal arm stands out in stark contrast. Rogers hovers over him, alternately glaring across the room and sending concerned glances to his friend, and Clint gets the feeling that this whole shebang is a lot more public a welcome than he would've wanted. He shifts his weight, suppressing a hiss, so he's got a hand free to tap Pepper on the shoulder. 

Pepper's eyebrows shoot up in surprise and she has confusion written all over her face when she turns to him. It's not that they actively dislike each other, but the opportunity for the two of them to chat just hasn't come up much, and him trying to get her attention might come out of the left field. But he knows she's a lot more sensitive in these matters than Stark, and she proves him right, because all he has to do is grimace and point towards the middle of the room, towards Rogers and Barnes, before she nods and steps forward. 

“Show's over,” she says, voice full of authority and brooking no argument. “Let's all give them some privacy.” 

Clint doesn't wait for the crowd to dissolve, just turns around and hobbles back the way he came. 

 

***

 

Barnes's arrival changes things. Not in a big, noticeable way, but it makes everyone more somber, as if the reality of the past months, of everything that has happened, just now occurs to them. It robs them of the ability to pretend that everything is fine, that their world will keep on turning, that they just have to adjust. And it's not just him; Rogers is livid. On his second day back, he brings them all together to start working on a strategy, some kind of plan to get rid of Hydra once and for all. For him it's personal, Clint figures, and not just because they stole his friend and made him a weapon. They pulled one over on him once, and now they did again. He's not going to allow them a third time. 

Their time of publicity stunts is over, and Clint would be way more joyful about the return to actual spy work if he'd be able to participate. Natasha tries to involve him as much as she can – he may be out of commission for the time being, but he's still got a brain on his shoulders, tactical knowledge, and more than a decade of experience. Still, going back to stretch out his throbbing leg after a few hours spent sitting and debating their next move while everyone else gears up to actually implement it _kills_ him. But he knows he'd be a liability like this, would do more harm than good, would slow them down, and so he grits his teeth and waits for them to come back. 

If Natasha notices how he holds on a little tighter to her, afterwards, when she's had her debrief with Rogers and showered and they worked out her leftover adrenaline together, she never says a word. 

 

***

 

It's another night of not sleeping and, on top of everything else, imagining new and interesting ways for his teammates to get killed or maimed, when the intercom comes to live shortly after 2 AM, and Jarvis's voice sounds through the otherwise dead-silent apartment. “I'm sorry to disturb you at this time, Mr. Barton. But the team is still out, and Mrs. Potts is on a –“ 

“Spit it out,” Clint says. He's never going to get used to talking to what's basically a super-fancy computer program, and he's not exactly in the mood to be polite to it. 

“There is a situation with Mr. Barnes, I'm afraid. I have been instructed not to address him directly, but he is... I think your presence might be required. Someone's presence, in any case.” 

Good to know that even a goddamn AI only considers him to be a last resort. Also, he was somewhat aware that they're being monitored, but not to what extent; Stark's gonna hear about _that_ later. “Can you specify that?” 

“His heart rate is way outside normal parameters. And he's screaming.” 

Assuming Jarvis would tell him if there's someone else in the room, that sounds like a clinical way of describing a bad nightmare. “So, uh. You're expecting me to head down there and check on him.” 

“Yes. I think that would be beneficial.” Clint's not sure it's possible for the thing to sound annoyed, or if he's just cranky and imagining a slightly aggravated tint to its voice. 

Clint crawls to the edge of the bed, reaches for his crutch – he's down to one, small victories – and hauls himself up. Jarvis has the door open and the elevator ready without further commands.

It certainly wasn't overstating when it said Barnes was _screaming_. Clint hears him as soon as the elevator door pings open on Rogers's floor; it's an animal noise, almost, high and strained and desperate. The door to Barnes’s room is already open, and Clint hurries his steps as much as he can. He lowers himself down to sit on the edge of the bed Barnes is sleeping in, momentarily lost as he watches him toss and turn. Experience tells him it's not a good idea to touch a trained fighter without warning, but he's got to wake him up somehow.

“Jarvis, can you turn on the light? Bright as it goes. And some noise would be good. Music. Nothing too heavy, but turned up loud.” 

The AI doesn't reply – apparently it's as keen on talking to him as he is communicating with it – but the lights in the room go up to almost blinding intensity, and classic music starts playing at a considerable volume. 

After a moment, Barnes stills, eyes flying open and the metal arm shooting out in Clint's general direction. 

Clint dodges it, just barely, his range of movement still restricted. “Whoa there!” 

Barnes sits up, blinks at him, eyebrows creased and head cocked. “What are you doing here? How did you get in? Where's –“ He falls silent, as if he's just now realizing where he is. 

“The, uh, computer notified me you're not having a good time down here, and asked me to check in.” It occurs to Clint that they haven't talked much since Barnes got here, pretty much not at all, really. He doesn't even know how up to speed Barnes is on twenty-first century technology and if someone explained to him what the damn AI is or what it does. 

Barnes nods, looking embarrassed. “I see.” 

And this could be it. Clint could go back to his floor, leave Barnes to pass the time however the fuck he wants to until Rogers rolls back in. But Clint knows the look on the guy’s face, knows that sleep isn't going to happen again tonight and that whatever he dreamed about will replay behind his eyes in an infinite loop unless someone distracts him. And, as has been established, there's no one else around to do that. 

He's going to regret this before long, but what the hell. “Hey, what do you say, wanna head to the kitchen and see if Stark's got some chicken wings in the freezer or something?” 

Barnes cocks his head further. “Why?” 

“Because you don't look so hot, and fried food is good for the soul,” Clint says with faked cheer, feeling more than a little awkward. “Everyone knows that.” 

It’s a few seconds before Barnes rubs at his neck with his, uh, human arm and nods. “Yes. Yes, I'd like that.” 

They trek up to the kitchen in silence, and Clint parks his companion on one of the chairs by the counter while he goes to dig into the contents of a freezer that's roughly the size of a regular person's wardrobe. He doesn't find chicken wings, but there are onion rings and french fries, and hey, yeah, that'll do. He's been up here enough to locate the deep fryer, leans on the counter while it heats up. 

“So,” he says to Barnes, who slid off the chair to the floor and has taken to looking out the window, at the admittedly impressive view of New York's skyline. “Bad dreams, huh?” 

“Yes,” is all the reply he gets, but at least Barnes turns to look at him instead. Clint's not so sure that's a desirable development. 

Nevertheless, he's made it this far, they're up here, he's doing this. He'll try to help. They're both soldiers, on some level. He can relate. He's got this. “Wanna talk about it?” 

Barnes straightens, like he's been given an order, not asked a question. “Tonight, I dreamed about a couple in Brazil. Politician and his wife. I shot them in the head, then tore off his hand to acquire his fingerprints for access to a government facility. Their grandchild was over to visit them, which hadn't been in the file, and she surprised me. So, I. Uh.” 

“Oh,” says Clint, and concedes to himself that _talking about it_ may not be the right strategy here.

Gaze falling away, Barnes turns back around to the window. The fryer starts sizzling, and Clint's never had the urge to hug a kitchen appliance before. He busies himself with putting the french fries in, waits, pulls them out, puts them on a plate, and replaces them with the onion rings, carefully wording his next response while he works. Once he's got both done, he places the plates on the floor in front of Barnes, alongside with a stack of napkins. 

“Careful, they're hot,” he warns, slowly lowering himself to the floor too and biting down on a wince. “But that wasn't really you, was it? They had you brainwashed. It was them.” 

Barnes still doesn't look up, but he reaches for a napkin and picks up an onion ring, and Clint considers that progress. Unsure how to proceed, whether to keep monologuing at him or just offer company and leave it at that, he snags an onion ring of his own. Maybe he should've paid more attention to his psych evals and mandatory chats with SHIELD's shrinks when it still existed. He could've learned something. 

Eventually, it's Barnes who breaks the silence. “Which one are you? Steve told me who's who a few times, but I can't remember. New information kinda still falls through.” His tone is conversational, like he's not talking about the shortcomings of his own, broken brain, and it's somewhat disconcerting. 

“Archer,” he says, and, when Barnes looks up and raises his eyebrows, adds, “Ah, you mean... Clint. I'm Clint.” 

He half expects Barnes to hold out his hand for a shake or something equally awkward, but Barnes simply nods. “Okay. I'm Bucky. James. I'm not sure yet, still kinda testing that out. But I guess you knew that. Not the testing part, the name.” He holds up another onion ring. “These are great. Thanks.” 

“You're welcome.” Clint bends forward to pick up another handful of fries, chews and swallows. “How's that going, by the way? Remembering?” 

Barnes waves a hand in the air. _So-so._ “That doctor guy, he says the serum will help with that. Something about neural pathways. I gave up trying to follow his explanations about three sentences in.” 

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Clint says, nodding. “Banner tends to forget that the rest of us don't hold a degree or five. But whatever he's doing, it's working?” 

Before he replies, Barnes’ expression darkens. “Mostly I remember things I'd rather forget. Things I did. Like the dream.” 

Clint leans back, props himself up on his elbows and stretches out his leg, which has started to ache something fierce. Getting back up is going to be fun. “Again, wasn't really you, right? It doesn't matter what you did while someone else made you do it. What matters is who you are, and what you're going to do now that it's all your choice.” 

A noise by the door makes them both startle, and Clint unconsciously feels for a bow that isn't there, but relaxes when he recognizes Natasha's footfalls even before she comes into view. She's not alone; Rogers is just a few steps behind. 

“Making friends?” she asks, and Clint shrugs his shoulders. 

“Jarvis introduced us. Sort of.” He's reluctant to tell her about nightmares that aren't his, bad memories he has no right to share. “Guess he figured we could as well not-sleep together.” 

She must know he's lying, but from the way her gaze flicks back and forth between him and Barnes, she seems to understand. She stops in front of him, extends a hand. “Is that so.” 

Clint takes it, lets her basically haul him up. He grimaces once he's on his feet, sharp pain throbbing through his thigh. They give short goodnights to Rogers and Barnes, and he manages to resist leaning on her in addition to his crutch on the way to his floor, but it's a near thing. 

Once they've both undressed and slipped into bed, she touches a hand to his temple, looks at him in a way that means she's either about to rip him a new one or have a moment of intense fondness; both expressions are distressingly similar. “I wish you'd be as generous with yourself as you are with other people.” 

And yeah, he has no idea what _that's_ supposed to mean. “What, make myself onion rings in the middle of the night?” 

“Doesn't matter what you did, while someone else made you do it,” Natasha says, repeating his own words back at him.

At first he doesn't know what she means, how that's got anything to do with _him_. She doesn't prompt him, doesn't explain it, just lets him work through it on his own until it clicks. 

When it does, he lets his gaze drop, avoiding her eyes, and clears his throat. “You heard that? How long were you two standing in the doorway?” 

“Long enough that we need to talk about the state of your situational awareness, you sorry excuse for a spy.” She smiles, poking him in the chest. “Now try and get some sleep.”


End file.
